OUT 

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NORTH 




HOWARD V. SUTHERLAND 




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Copyright N 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

Idylls of Greece Series One 
Idylls of Gree.ce Series Ttvo 
The Woman Who Could 
The Legend of Love 
Idas and Marpessa 



OUT OF THE 3^'BJH 




JoACiuiN Miller 



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To Frederick H. Randall 



C 3%TE 3^TS 



Frontispiece^ 'Joaquin Miller^ Dawson^ 

Foreword by Joaqutn Miller 

The Northern Light 

In Winter 

Lyric 

Darl^ Days 

The Unanswerable 

Vain Dreams 

December .... 

The Unassuageable. 

Father Judge S. J. , 

The Light-o'-Love . 

Two ^hiests 

The Return of the Sun 

Klondyke Roses 

A Song for the Return of Birds 

The Forest Cotillion 

The Spruces of the Forest . 

The JVild Lover 

Homeward Bound . , 

Approaching Night 



Tag* 

r.T. 
I 

2 

3 
4- 
5 
6 

7 
8 

9 

JO-II 
12 

16 

17 
18 

'9 
20 



FO%EW 0%p 



'iS'?1f1&'!ft"ift'ONGS from a far-away world; a cry 
C '^ from another sphere. To those of us 
^ i3 ^ who once experienced the still and 
AA^Aifi? P't'l^ss cold, a cry terribly suggestive 
of the horror-charged gloom, of the icy silence 
as unbroken as that of unfathomable deeps, of the 
stern and uncompromising individuality of a dis- 
turbed and vengeful North. 

Yet one is also reminded that, even in the 
Klondyke, in due season the brooding spruces are 
awakened from slumber by the songs of happv- 
throated songsters, that the melancholy of the 
forest is brightened by gay flowers. The weight 
is then lifted from men's hearts; singing is heard 
in the cabin, and the sound of laughter on the 
trail. When the mighty Yukon is open to the 
Behring Sea, the far North is in touch with the 
world and men are glad. 

But the Arftic summer is short-lived. The 
days of the bird and the flower and the rippling 
creeks are numbered. Soon the sky turns grey, 
the wind chants the sun's requiem, the snow falls; 
and then returns the cold, the gloom, the feeling 
of isolation, the indescribable terror. 

I heard these songs sung in the Arftic, the 
singer at mv side — these songs of nature, songs of 
hope, home, heart. They seem a part of my life. 
I heard them as the cry of a lore bird in the vast 
silence of eternal snows. 

JOAQUIN MILLER 
The Heights, Cal. 

Nov. j^th "" gg 



The Northern Light 

WHO drapes that mystic veil across 
that everbrooding sky? 
Who hues it with a soul of pearl? Who 
draws it to and fro? 
Who breathes upon it with the breath that 
makes it glow and die, 
Lighting that crystal river, those mount- 
ains cowl'd with snow? 



W 



In Winter 

BENEATH the snow the mosses sleep 
Amid the forest's silence; 
Above, the stately birches keep 
Unbroken vigils. 

The spruce trees dream of summer hours 

And birds that carrolled sweetly, 
Of gentle winds and smiling flowers 
That died too quickly. 



\.A 



Lyric 

TELL me, tell me, gentle stars, 
Ever watchful, ever bright. 
From your stations in the sky 
Do you see my love to-night? 

White the snow beneath my feet, 
Whiter far her holy breast; 

Peaceful are the mighty woods. 
But her eyes are soft with rest. 

Sweet the scent of spruce and pine, 
Sweeter, though, her fragrant breath; 

Tell her, tell her, gentle stars, 
I am hers alone till death. 



[3] 



Dark Days 



THE sun has left his throne, 
The sky is leaden-hued; 
The hopeless winds bemoan, 
In icy aisles, their fate. 

All day the shadows press 

About the forest's nuns. 
That dream in loneliness 

Their dreams of birds and spring. 



[4] 



The Unanswerable 



O SOMBRE skies that ever mourn, 
O silent skies so grey and stern, 
Are ye the curtains of that bourne 

Where we at last our fate must learn ? 

Is it behind your gloomy veil 

The Judge u'ith Book of Judgment stands? 
Where we must pass, with faces pale, 

Awaiting judgment at His hands? 

O sombre skies that frown all day 
Upon us hopeless, hapless men. 

When Death shall beckon us away 

What happens then? What happens then? 



[5] 



Vain Dreams 



THE trees, my sisters, robed in white, 
Now dream of spring; 
Of sun-lit day and fragrant night. 
Of birds that sing. 

They little think that I can tell 

About their pain; 
They do not know I dream as well 

A dream most vain. 



[6] 



December 

BENEATH a shroud of unpolluted white, 
The frozen hills lie silent and asleep; 
And moveless spruce and ghostly birches 
keep 
Their silent vigils through the endless night. 
The frozen creeks, long voiceless, partly 
veiled 
'Neath drifting snow, dream fondly of 

the trees; 
Within the woods no bird's song and no 
breeze 
Make wondrous music when the skies have 

paled. 
The kingly sun ne'er sends his laughing rays 
To wake the hills and warm the trees 

and streams; 
His face is hid, and hid are now the beams 
That woke the world on long-dead summer 

days. 
The patient moon with all her silent train 
Of maiden stars patrols the roads on high. 
And watches well all things that sleep- 
ing lie 
Till Spring's first song shall waken themagain. 
The white world sleeps, and all is very still, 
Except when rises on the frosted air 
From out its chilly and forbidding lair 
A lone wolf's howl, long-drawn and terrible. 

[7] 



The Unassuageable 



I SOMETIMES hear among the snow- 
clad trees 
The lone wind chanting solemn symphonies. 

I sometimes smell, while yet the woods 

are bare, 
The breath of unborn blossoms in the air. 

I am at times aware of gentle sighs 
There where the creek, ice-fettered, dream- 
ing lies. 

I sometimes witness when the air is still 
Unearthly splendors on the white-robed hill. 

I sometimes read m flashing stars at night 
Mysterious promises of future light. 

But what can make a spirit's anguish less, 
Or ease a heart's eternal loneliness? 



[8] 



Father yudge, S. y, 

HERE was a man, a humble minister 
Beloved of all in northern latitudes 
Who knew the value of the kingly heart 
That beat beneath his worn and priestly coat. 

A soldier he, who ne'er forsook his post; 
Whose a6lions were more numerous than 

words; 
His soul was God's; his heart and body 

man's — 
Nothing his own except our gratitude. 

Worn e'er his time by hardship none may 

know 
Who shirked the bitter schooling of the 

North, 
He passed away, and now forever stands 
As close to God as gentle Damien. 



[9] 



The L.ight-0 -L,ove 

THE dogs were whining; they sensed 
too well 
The load upon the sled; 
The rough-hewn box with the light-o'-love — 
A girl, 'twas said. 

A week ago, at the Palace Bar, 

She sang the songs of France; 
But many a heart is lead the while 
The feet must dance. 

Kisses she gave and kisses she took. 

Sinned for her daily bread; 
But all we knew as we eyed the box 
Was: she was dead. 

We placed upon it (How much it hurt 

Only the good God knows !) 
A gaud she had worn in her dusky hair — 
A paper rose. 

A crumpled thing that seemed beautiful 

To lonely, broken men, 
Hinting of fairer flowers and things 
Beyond our ken. 

We thought of her as we closed her door 

As somebody's little child; 
As somebody's darling, lost, long lost. 
But undefiled. 



[10] 



The grey above us, the white beneath; 

Chill silence everywhere; 
Yet deep in our hearts we knew that God 
Was also there. 

We knew, far better than others know 

Whose ways are bright and glad. 
His judgments are very merciful 
On good and bad. 

Our little sister was now at peace. 

The snow began to fall. 
The flakes soon hid that gift of ours 
Beneath their pall. 

Under the white, white flakes the rose, 

Crumpled, tawdry and red; 
Hinting the pity which all men need 
When they are dead. 

* * * 

The dogs still whined as they dragged the 
sled 
To where the spruces dream; 
And there we left her, a wayward child. 
At rest in Him. 



["] 



Two ^^ests 



EVERY day I watch men go 
Up the trail 
Seeking gold. It is a show 
Worth the watching; much I know 
About the game. 

In the dead of night they creep 

Past my door; 
But I hear them in my sleep, 
And I pity. Very steep 

The road to Fame. 



[12] 



The Return of the Sun 

WINTER is passing. The inconstant 
sun — 
Negle6lful lover, therefore doubly dear — 
Kisses the stern, white faces of the hills. 
Melting their hearts to tenderness again; ' 
Kisses the earth, still shiv'ring 'neath its 

shroud. 
And whispers it of blossoms to be born. 
Kisses the boughs and lures the fresh young 

leaves. 
Spring's verdant heralds, from their hiding 

place; 
Kisses the trees and tells them of bright 

birds 
Seeking new homes for merry families. 

Winter is passing. The inconstant sun — 
Negledlful lover, therefore doubly dear — 
Enters the hearts of long despondent men. 
Bidding them smile and be consoled again; 
Enters their souls and whispers them of God, 
Of distant homes and friends that pray for 

them; 
Enters our cabins and dispels the gloom 
Of soundless days and never-ending nights; 
Enters our eyes and bids us rise and see 
Winter's interment, mourn'd by laughing 

Spring. 

['3] 



Klondyke Roses 



WHEN melts at last the lingering snow 
In sunny days of May or June, 
Amid the velvet mosses grow 

Shy roses, fragrant-smelling. 
A fated sisterhood is theirs. 

They sigh their souls out wistfully ; 
No bee makes love to them or hears 
Their tender love a-telling. 

They dream, perhaps, of distant lands, 

(O lands, that seem as far-off spheres ■■) 
Of love-lit eyes and tender hands 
That pluck far happier roses. 
But while they dream the days pass by 

And August comes with ebon nights. 
And sombre is September's sky — 
And then their sad life closes. 



[h] 



tA Song for the Return of Birds 

HASTE, little songsters, and return 
To your nests in the silent wood; 
The birches are lonely and they yearn 

For your twittering brotherhood. 
The leaves are green on the wakened trees 
And the snow has left the moss; 
The sighing breeze 
With its symphonies 
Suggests our greatest loss — 
Haste, little birds, haste home ! 

Haste little songsters, for the Spring 

Has come with her laughing train 
Of radiant blossoms; and now the King 

Is here, and the pattering rain. 
The nights are warm and the days are long. 

There is no more ice or frost; 
And oh! we long 
For a songbird's song. 

For a music the woods have lost — 
Haste, little birds, haste home! 



[^5] 



The Forest Cotillion 

WHEN the wind is joyous-hearted it 
stirs the graceful spruces, 
And they nod at one another and toss their 

arms in abandon; 
Then they sway their supple bodies in won- 
derful undulations, 
Keeping a perfe(Sl time with the wind's 
mysterious music. 

Then the watchmen of the forest, the solemn 

and silent birches, 
Bend stifly their stately heads, saluting their 

laughing sisters; 
And the alders wake from slumber, and the 

willows grieve no longer 
When the wild wind woos the stream and 

sets the trees a-dancing. 



[i6] 



The Spruces of the Forest 

UNHAPPY trees, beneath whose grace- 
ful branches 
No lovers walk, no children ever play; 
Who never hear the sound of girlish laughter. 
But pass in gloom your silent lives away; 
I wonder if ye heed me as I press 
My heart to yours in utter loneliness. 

I wonder if ye see me as I wander 

Along the trail no feet but mine e'er tread; 

I wonder if ye hear me when I murmur 
The name of one who might as well be dead 

So far away, so very far is she — 

I wonder if ye heed and pity me ? 



[17] 



The Wild Lover 



SWAY your lithe arms, ye graceful trees, 
The wind is out a-wooing ! 
Ye may be many, yet he sees 
A way to your undoing. 

Ye need not fear, 
Though birds may hear 

Your whispers or your sighs; 
Or tell the night 
Of your delight — 

Nay, Nay, the birds are wise. 

Your vestiture of maiden green 

Doth very well adorn ye; 
The wind will deem each one a queen. 

And woo. He dare not scorn ye! 



[i8] 



Homeward Bound 



I HAVE ventured on many a journey, 
By land and sea ; 
And whether success or failure 

Was granted me, 
It mattered but very little — 
It is good to be Homeward Bound. 

When thou bravest the final voyage. 

And thou must steer 
Across the mysterious ocean, 

Friend, have no fear; 
There is only one port for the sailors 
When once they are Homeward Bound ! 



[^9] 



^approaching ^ight 

THE lower'd skies are grey; the trees 
are bare. 
A week ago they gleam'd in splendid 
rows 
Of gold and crimson; now in gaunt despair 
They stand like ghosts above new-fallen 
snows. 

The world seems even greyer than the skies. 
'Twas yesterday the homeward-honking 
geese 
Fled as from death. They know too well 
what lies 
Behind this sinister, foreboding peace! 



[20] 



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